Things That Hurt
by scarylolita
Summary: Craig is on a downward spiral and Kenny is trying hard to keep him sane. Slash, Crenny.


**South Park © Matt & Trey. **

**Just a bit of plotless drabble, but I'm so passionate about this pairing I can't even explain it. Craig is somewhat **_**OOC**_**, but shh, it's okay.**

* * *

_Cold wind blows, I am shivering_  
_My body aches as my heart is breaking_  
_Why is life making me hollow?_

Hodge

**1.**

It's 3PM on a Saturday. Craig and I are sitting on the floor in his bedroom getting stoned because that's the kind of shit seventeen year olds do here in South Park.

"Why don't you ever leave me alone?" he asks.

"Because I don't want to," I reply in a nonchalant manner.

He rolls his eyes. "You think my wiring is loose," he states monotonously. "You think I'm a fuck up."

"Yeah," I admit, "but if it's any consolation, I think we're all a little fucked up."

"I cry when I'm pissed off, but not when I'm sad."

"That's not so abnormal. What do you do when you're sad?"

"Pretend I'm not."

"Are you sad now?"

"No."

"Are you pretending?"

"No."

Well, maybe he is. I guess I'll never know.

He hit rock bottom a long time ago, yet he still manages to dig himself into even deeper holes. That's why I never leave him alone; however, it never makes a difference because he's still fucked up.

"God, I'm so high," he snorts, and everything is funny again. The sound continues to erupt from his throat. None of this matters when he is high, and that is why he can speak so easily.

"I know you are," I laugh, taking the last puff of the joint before sticking it in the ashtray on his nightstand.

"Fucker."

I grin, blowing the smoke out in his face a minute later. He shuts his eyes and I lean forward, pecking him on the lips. "Dumbass," I say fondly.

He has a small and silly smile on his face – the kind of smile that makes him look content and that shows exactly how high he is because he is far from content.

"Read me something," he says.

"Like what?"

"Anything," he shrugs. "I want to hear you talk, but I'm not in the mood to converse."

"You never really are," I note before standing up and scanning the various novels on his shelf, eventually picking up _Alice's Aventures in Wonderland_.

Heh. A couple years ago, we watched the Disney version of the film while high on acid and Craig cried. I will never let him live that one down.

I settle back down on the floor next to him and open the book. I often read to him. I think he finds it comforting, the way a small child would.

"This book…" he mumbles.

I snicker before starting to read.

He soon falls asleep on my lap and I don't have the heart to move, so I just keep reading, even though I know he can't hear me anymore. Well, maybe the words will find him while he's dreaming and they'll fuck up his dreams – make them all trippy and shit.

* * *

**2.**

A couple hours later Craig's mother yells at us to come down and eat. I shake Craig awake.

"Your mom is calling," I say.

He grunts, getting up and leaving the room.

I follow him down the stairs. "It's cool that I'm staying over, right?"

"Yeah," he says. "They don't care. They asked me to invite you."

It's always incredibly uncomfortable having dinner at the Tucker residence – more so than it is at the Cartman house, the Marsh house, and even the Broflovski house. It's nice of them to let me eat with them and junk, but awkward. I think they feel obligated because I'm Craig's friend. Well, technically we're more than friends but his parents don't know that. That said, I'm here all the damn time, and I'm poor as shit so maybe that also has something to do with it. I'm kind of the town charity case. I think everyone takes turns inviting me to their house for supper so I won't have to eat fucking pop tarts and waffles every night.

Craig and his family fight a lot. They are always cussing and flipping each other off. They're kind of like my family, minus the physical violence, so I don't know why it's still so damn awkward. Maybe it's because they're _not_ my family – they're someone else's family so I wish they'd be better than mine. I think it stresses Craig out a bit.

"Craig, go set the table," Mrs. Tucker asks as she stands in front of the stove and stirring a pot.

We are standing in the kitchen doorway, our highs long gone. Craig stifles a yawn with the back of his hand and doesn't answer her. He just stands next to me staring at what looks like nothing in particular.

"Craig!" she shouts, spinning around when he doesn't reply.

I nudge him in the ribs.

"Craig!" she shouts again.

"Stop your yelling, god dammit," Mr. Tucker cuts in.

I hear Craig let out a short breath. His jaw is tense, and I can tell he's trying not to grind his teeth. It's a habit he needs to kick. His teeth are already fucked up enough as it is.

His parents are arguing and yelling at each other now. I just keep standing here quietly next to Craig until he decides to finally speak.

"I'm gay."

And then it's quiet.

"What?" his mother hisses, breaking the silence.

"I'm fucking gay."

Ruby laughs loudly. I bet she knew all along…

Craig flips her off, and she _kindly_ returns the gesture.

Mr. Tucker stares at him before turning his gaze expectantly towards me, the vein on his forehead looks like it's about to burst.

I just smile awkwardly. What the hell am I supposed to say? 'Yep, I'm the guy who fucks your son! So what are we having for supper?' No, I don't think that would cut it so I just volunteer to set the table since Craig won't.

Trust me when I say supper is tense – more so than usual thanks to Craig's little outburst earlier.

At least they aren't yelling anymore.

* * *

**3.**

Later in the day it is cold outside, but Craig is even colder.

He enjoys seeing other people in pain. I think that's why he sticks so close to Clyde. Clyde is always crying over something. I think seeing it makes Craig feel better about himself, but knowing that makes him feel even worse in general.

"I'm such a bad person," he snorts as we turn onto a suspension bridge.

"We all are," I shrug, shoving my frozen hands in my pockets and look over the guard railing. "How far are we going to walk?" I ask Craig, staring out at the body of water we're standing over.

He just shrugs. "Hey, does your life really flash before your eyes as you die?"

I laugh, "No."

"I didn't think it would," he admits. "I guess it doesn't matter either way. My life isn't all that interesting."

I can't really disagree with him. He lives a pretty mundane life. He always says that it is "nice and boring" and that is just the way he likes it. I know that that's why he avoids Stan, Eric and Kyle like the fuckin' plague. If I were looking to lead a normal life, I'd probably do the same. However, even if I wanted it, it wouldn't be possible. I'm Kenny McCormick and a life filled with death is hardly mundane.

"I'm going to do it today," Craig says, jumping over the guard rail and standing over the edge to face the open air. He just bought an energy drink from a convenient store and seems a little livelier than he usually is.

"No you're not," I reply, because I know he isn't quite ready to make that decision.

"Yeah, you're right," he relents, spinning himself around to face me. "But when I do it, you'll be there, right?"

"Of course," I say. "What do you think you'll do on your last night?"

"Dunno." He continues to hang over the edge, one little slip of the toe and he's a goner. I don't think he'd care all that much if it happened by accident, but making the conscious decision is the hard part.

He's pretty, in that totally boyish way. I think it's a shame he is so sad – because he is to damn pretty to die. Maybe that's a silly reason. He is a lot more than just a nice face. I don't want him to kill himself. I think it would be nice if he could find the will to live, but Craig Tucker is one stubborn fucker.

"What would you do if I let go right now?" he asks, and I see him loosen his grip on the guard rail.

"I'd jump after you and we'd die together."

"How romantic," he snorts.

"You know how I roll," I wink.

"Hey, if you were gonna die and not come back, what would you spend the day doing?" he asks.

"Get over here, and then I'll tell you."

He shoots me an irritated look before climbing back over the guard rail and to the safe side.

I slap his back as we start walking off of the bridge. "Well," I begin, "I'd come see you – get me some ass."

He snorts, "Shit-for-brains."

I snicker. "Okay, okay," I begin. "I would say that I want to do something exciting… but then I look back on the kind of life I've lived already and I can't think of anything more thrilling than what I've already experienced. Maybe I'd want to do something that would help someone else."

"Like what?"

"Shit, I dunno," I shrug. "Maybe I would volunteer at a hospital or give blood or something… I'd have to think about it."

"That's gay."

"You're gay."

"So are you."

I laugh, putting my arm around him, pulling him closer.

"People will see," he says.

"Ah, let them. I really don't really give a fuck."

* * *

**4.**

Craig always talks about suicide like it's no big deal – like it's kind of a joke to him. It seems to be something that is always on his mind. Even as we grow older, I think he finds himself thinking about it often. Maybe dreaming about it, too. I wonder if he'd call them dreams or nightmares.

I want him to live and be happy, but if he truly doesn't want to be here then the least I can do is be of some comfort. I know I won't be able to convince him of anything.

When all is said and done, I'd return and I'd comfort the people he left behind. I'd still be able to see him, with my constant trips to hell, and maybe that's why the idea doesn't frighten me so much. I know I'll probably still be fairly young when I die for good, so I'd likely be down in hell for good someday soon after Craig.

An eternity young and beautiful with the person you love seems appealing, right? But I know the idea I have in my head is so overly-romanticized (I'll just blame it on Shakespeare), but I've thought so long and hard about it all…

When we were young, we would get our hands on whatever drugs we could. We'd put Xanax under our tongues before tying them together – all while lying in on the floor in his room and he'd talk about killing himself after the melting feeling set in.

He'd say something like, "I feel like shit. I just want someone to cut me up."

"No you don't," I would tell him.

"Why not?"

"Because it hurts."

And he knows that pain as well as I do. He knows it because he's always cutting himself up since no one else will. He's scarred on his arms, stomach and thighs. I don't understand it, but he just says, "The pain stops the pain," and that is as good of an answer I'll ever get from him.

I said if he ever truly wanted to die, I'd do it with him because dying alone is scary and sad. I know that from countless first hand experiences.

We grew out of that teenaged junky phase. We moved away from pills after grade ten and now we're just burnt out. Sometimes I will tell him to get an energy drink and go for a run outside. He always does, but I'm not sure it really helps. Sometimes we'll smoke and he will laugh at things that aren't funny.

Shit. I always hurt my head trying to remember all these little details. Thinking about Craig makes my head hurt in general. Sometimes I feel like my emotions are fucking exploding and there's a nuclear war going on in my mind.

But hey, maybe it's just love.

* * *

**5.**

"You'll be fine," I say, pulling him even closer. "Everything'll be fine."

He's pessimistic – negative to an almost unbelievable extent. I try to be the opposite. I try to shed as much light on him as I can, however; as always, Craig is conscious but unconscious.

"Yeah," he mumbles, but I can tell he doesn't believe me.

Shit, I don't know if I believe me either.


End file.
